Ratatouille: Réécrit
by IceFlake 77
Summary: One had the potential, but not the skill. The other had the skill, but not the passion. They both had the vision, and all it took was a little love to make it come true. Eventual Human!Remy x Linguini.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Ratatouille: Réécrit**  
>CharactersPairings: **Linguini x Colette, eventual Human!Remy x Linguini**  
>Summary: <strong>One had the potential, but not the skill. The other had the skill, but not the passion. They both had the vision, and all it took was a little love to make it come true. Eventual Human!Remy x Linguini.**  
>Rating: <strong>T / R-15**  
>WARNINGS: <strong>Human!Remy, eventual gay couple (with highly slashable moments along the way), non-graphic making out and implied sex towards the end**  
>Disclaimer (if needed): <strong>I DO NOT OWN RATATOUILLE. Disney & Pixar are the GLORIOUS GENIUSES that do.

**NOTE (READ BEFORE STARTING): **This story is basically just the entire movie (plus a little more), _but with Remy as a human. _The original plot is slightly doctored in order to take into account the impossibility of some moments in the movie if Remy were no longer a rat, but nonetheless, I tried to stay as close to the original as possible (You know…except for the Remy x Linguini part?) If that doesn't bother you, then please do enjoy. :)

**NOTE 2:** I wrote this because I got inspired by this request on the Disney Kink Meme, minus the smut (very funny, since that's all that OP asked for XD) -remove the spaces-: http :/ / disney-kink . livejournal. com / 361 . html ? thread = 1613417

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><p><strong><span>Ratatouille: Réécrit<span>  
><strong>_**by IceFlake77**_

**Chapter 1  
><strong>

The world during summer was a wonderful, beautiful thing. The endless blue sky contrasted with the green pastures below, which seemed to be even more vivid during the season of the sun more than anything else. Of the sun itself, the star (both literally and poetically) of the day, was shining, bright and warm.

Perhaps even too warm.

Which was why under the sweltering heat of the midday sun, two brothers were just sitting in front of a small, rather ancient television in their simple little repair shop, watching daytime soaps-one of them devouring (there was no other word for it) the ham sandwich in his left hand and holding a can of soda in his right, the other simply sitting with his hands on his knees, leaning forward.

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><p>I worry about my brother sometimes.<p>

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><p>He inhaled, almost instinctively noting the usual smells—sweat and motor oil. His nose scrunched up in protest, though, as it picked up on a particularly unfamiliar and rancid scent, which was coming from…right next to him.<p>

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><p>Okay, I worry about my brother <em>a lot.<em>

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><p>"Emile," he said, peering at the disgusting <em>monstrosity <em>his brother was eating. "How old is that sandwich?"

The plumper of the two of them tore his eyes away from the black-and-white picture on the TV (Hey, they had no reason to replace it, since it wasn't broken yet) long enough to glance down at the topic of the conversation before gluing his eyes back to the TV set. "Dunno…'bout a few days, maybe?"

He made a face, thinking: _Typical._

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><p>Yes, I worry about Emile a lot. And it's mostly because of his…eating habits.<p>

Emile is the sort of guy who doesn't really mind what it is, as long as it's possible to chew and swallow it. I suppose for some people, that would be kind of a plus—him not being a picky eater and all. To tell you the truth, I'm actually a little surprised that he's never been hospitalized for stomach problems, given the amount of crap he eats from god-knows-where and god-knows-when. Of course, this little 'victory' of sorts is always, always, _always _attributed to the Dubois Stomach of Steel.

Which, unfortunately, I didn't inherit.

Don't get me wrong—I'm not resentful or anything. In fact, I'm pretty glad that I hadn't gotten it. Just imagine what kind of things I'd be eating now if I had…old pizza; cans of soda, syrupy from days of being left open; other unmentionables…TAKEAWAYS, _INSTANT MEALS _(God forbid)…

Ughhh, I shudder at even the _thought_.

Getting back to Emile…Well, I can't really blame him for having that kind of attitude towards food. It sort of…runs in the family, so to speak. I guess you can even consider it a side-effect of the Dubois Stomach of Steel. Since my clan can generally withstand things that go beyond the gastronomic capabilities of a normal person, we don't really see the need to care about what we eat. (Or something. I don't know. I never really understood it whenever Dad tried to explain to my younger self the more delicate and psychological aspect of the Stomach of Steel. And I've long since given up trying to understand it.)

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><p>"<em>REMY, EMILE!<em>"

The two of them looked to where the voice came from. At the entrance to the garage, there was a middle-aged man, one who was in undeniably good shape, dismounting from his ancient (but not ancient-looking) Harley-Davidson.

"Hey, Dad!" Emile called back before taking another bite of his sandwich.

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><p>This is my dad.<p>

A few facts about my dad: He's almost 50, but doesn't look it because of how well-built he is. He can bench press up to 200 pounds when he's in a bad mood. He goes through a pack of smokes in less time than it takes me to puff one cigarette (the rather absurd feeling of shame at being so slow was what made me pledge to never smoke ever again in the first place, actually).

Oh, and he's the guy whose stomach I didn't inherit.

He never seems to understand this important little tidbit about me, of course, and it inevitably leads up to a lot of fights centering on my inability to stomach what I seriously do consider is _garbage. _Take for example the other day, when he, on a rare instance, brought me and Emile lunch:

"_Here, eat up," was the only thing he said as Dad tossed a plastic bag toward us (or rather, our general direction). I swiftly caught it, having better motor skills than Emile._

_When it came to food, though, Emile always seemed to move a lot faster. He yanked the plastic bag toward himself and peered inside. He grinned and grabbed one of the plastic containers of food and the root beer, knowing that I hated the stuff. "Thanks, Dad!"_

_I, on the other hand, wasn't as happy to discover what our food was. "Convenience store food, Dad? Seriously?" I didn't mean to sound so rude, but…I guess it just came out that way._

_My dad glared at me and opened his mouth to say something rude in return, but my brother, ever the master at reading the atmosphere and desperate amateur at keeping the peace, suggested, "If you don't want it, I'll eat it!"_

"_Yeah," my dad agreed. "Emile can eat your share and _you _can _starve_." He turned around swiftly and left, leaving dust clouds and the diminishing roar of his beloved motorcycle behind._

"_Well," Emile commented as he popped his can open. "That went well."_

_I couldn't help but roll my eyes._

So you see, in my family, I'm kind of the odd-man-out. What makes it worse is that it's not limited to only my immediate family. If it were, I could handle that. But no, I'm very much aware that all my aunts, uncles, and cousins don't need to mind what they eat either.

It makes me miss Mom.

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><p>Django made his way towards his sons, avoiding without fail all of the random car parts and tools and vehicles along the way, very much used to the cramped space. "What the hell are you guys doing? There's work to be done!"<p>

"Give us a break, Dad," Remy reasoned out, to which Emile (rather unhelpfully) added:

"Which is exactly what we're doing!"

"It's ridiculously hot right now, and we don't really feel like doing work in this condition."

Django huffed and crossed his arms. "That doesn't change the fact that there's still around half a dozen cars to work on, based on what I just passed by." He looked over his shoulder at the cars with open hoods in order to prove his point. "So tell me, boys, when exactly do you two intend to get off your asses and start working again?"

Remy made a vague gesture with his hand. "When the car washers get back from their lunch break, or something. It's under control, Dad."

The twitch of Django's eyebrow didn't go unnoticed. It was obvious that he was getting pissed. "'It's under control,' huh, Remy? Then why don't you explain to me why the car washers are still on break…AT 2:30 PM?"

Remy's eyes widened as his heart dropped into his stomach. "It's 2:30 already?" He turned to his brother. "Emile, why didn't you tell me?"

"I-I thought you knew!" The other answered, mid-bite.

He faced his father again. "Dad, we're sorry! We didn't know…W-We didn't realize—" He started to ramble out an apology and a haphazard explanation, but Django put his hand up, signaling for him to stop.

"We'll talk about this later, at home. For now, get back to work." He dug into his pocket and brought out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. "Someone tipped me off that Tom and his crew's slacking off by the creek. I'll go get them." He took a long drag. "But this will be the last time."

"Yes, Dad…" His two sons simultaneously replied.

Remy hung his head low out of embarrassment and shame, knowing that his dad trusted him with being the more responsible one, and he had failed him.

"See you later, boys." Django bid his farewell as he exited the garage with steady but heavy footsteps. He seated himself on his motorcycle and took off.

Remy sighed and scratched the nape of his neck before moving to snap the top half of his overalls, which had been hanging around his waist during his way-too-long break, back into place.

Emile switched off the TV as he downed the rest of his soda. He crushed the can and belched loudly promptly after. "I think," he started, "we should fire Tom and his friends. They keep on slacking off and it makes _us _look like the bad guys."

The black-haired man turned to him and answered, "Agh, I wish we could, Emile, but…Aunt Ethel practically _begged _Dad and us to ignore Tom's…behavioral problems. Besides, he's our cousin. We have to give him a chance, at least just for that."

Emile shrugged. "Just sayin'."

Remy sighed and put his face in his hands, but then remembered what they were supposed to be doing. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his utility gloves. "Alright," he said, "I guess we should get this over with."

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><p>I'm Remy Dubois. I belong to a gigantic clan (Hello, my dad is the eldest out of fifteen) of mechanics. I'm not good at all the heavy lifting and stuff, but I have a very good eye for detail, which makes me the most suitable to deal with foreign cars, not that we get them very often around these parts—'these parts,' meaning the countryside.<p>

My five senses are more…sensitive than those of the average human, which means that I can't stay inside the repair shop a lot if I want to prevent myself from throwing up all the time because of all the funky smells. This, combined with my _normal_ stomach…Well, let's just say that I don't think that this kind of lifestyle is suited for me.

And I hate it.

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><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>  
>Uh...Review? 8D Constructive criticism is welcome, but I don't like bullies. :(<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

REPLIES TO REVIEWS:

aisarete - I'm actually surprised that no one had thought of doing this kind of thing sooner!

MissusPatches - Hahaha, thank you for the kind words! o^_^o I've already planned the entire story out in my head so that it makes as much sense as possible, and I'm glad that I am actually meeting my objectives. :P This isn't my first time doing a multi-chapter story, but I do hope that it will be the first time I COMPLETE one! XD

mynameisweird - lolz you can only imagine how disappointed I was with the lack of slash in this fandom X( WHICH IS WHY I'M MAKING MY OWN 8D

empurple - Tsk, tsk, darling, you should know me by now. ;) Of COURSE I can make slash with anything. Aaaaand here's the next chapter you need in order to say something interesting :-"

Also, thank you to those who put this on their story alert list! :D

Sorry for the delay in this chapter's arrival. It was supposed to be posted like a week ago or something, but my editors have been really busy with real life and of course, I can't pressure them into doing this. On top of that, I had to attend a four-day sleep-in journalism seminar (DORM LIFE IS SO FUNNNN 8D) and I just came back this afternoon. I'll be leaving tomorrow for another four days, so I figured HEY, why not post this now? XD In reality, I've already written six chapters, but yeah. Editor problem.

SO. Here's the thing: _**I NEED A BETA-READER.**_ If anyone's interested, you may PM me, but take note that I'll need to screen you first before agreeing. I'll have to read through some of your works, so if you have never written anything...Well. XD Anyway, the reason why I need to do that is because I never want to release something that sounds crappy or something, so I need someone who is both knowledgeable and unafraid in pointing out my errors.

Erm, that is all, and...do enjoy~

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><p><strong><span>Chapter 2<span>**

I was quite young when my mother died—about 5 or so. Ah, but don't expect me to start throwing a self-pity party. Take note, _I was really young, _which means _I don't remember her much._

What I _can _remember of her, though, mostly takes place in the kitchen. Our house has always been small, but it's always been enough for our family. Still, my 4-year-old self would always feel oppressed when he'd be in the living room, surrounded by Dad and his burly friends who were always there, playing poker and drinking. (Never smoking, though. Dad forbids smoking inside the house, even until now. Even if he _is _the only one on which those rules apply to now.)

And since my 4-year-old self would always feel oppressed, he'd find solace in the only place he knew he could get it: in the kitchen, with Mommy.

"_Oh, what's wrong, Remy?"_

"_Dad's playing cards with his friends again…I don't know how to play cards, so I can't join…."_

"_Well, you shouldn't because you're still a kid. Tell you what, why don't we do something more fun than sitting around, playing with cards?"_

"_What, what?"_

"_How about you help Mommy cook?"_

"_Okay!"_

Hazy memories from almost twenty years ago. They make me feel old, but that's the most vivid memory I have of my mother. I can't really remember what she looked like at that moment, but whatever her physical appearance was, I only know it through the many photographs we keep of her around the house.

She was really pretty, and that's basically what everyone says about her. She had soft features and a petite build, which, my uncles say, is totally my dad's type. She was a brunette, which, again quoting my uncles, was a plus. Something people say about my family in terms of physical appearance is this: I look like Dad, except I have Mom's body type. Emile, on the other hand, looks like our mom, but has Dad's build. Our brown eyes, though, Emile's and mine, come from our mother. Which is why Dad sometimes gazes really intently into them.

I…don't really want to ask about it, frankly.

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><p>"We're home!" Emile announced as he and Remy walked in through the front door of their small bungalow.<p>

"Did you lock up the shop?" Django called out from inside the kitchen-dining room, as the brothers toed off their utility boots and placed them on the shoe rack that stood by the door.

"Yes, Dad!" Remy answered, followed by a muttered "Like I always do." (Between the two brothers, it was Remy who always held the keys, since Emile had the tendency to misplace things.)

"Alright then, come here! Grub's on the table!"

Upon entering, they spotted their father sitting at one side of the square table, reading that morning's newspaper. Above him, the single florescent light bulb appeared to be flickering lightly because of a moth that was circling it. And on the table, there sat…

"Dad, are those _takeaways?_" Remy questioned, voicing merely a fraction of his disbelief.

Django, already used to his son's peculiar particularity in food, didn't bother getting mad anymore. Still, that didn't stop him from getting mildly irritated. "Shut up, sit down, and just eat the damn stuff." He turned to the next page. "And I don't know how you manage to do it. I don't know how you manage to _still _complain about our food, even after years of eating this stuff."

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><p>Let's just say that after Mom died, Dad kind of…let himself go. Himself, and the rest of the family—not that he's ever neglected me and Emile, of course. It's just that, after her death, he sort of closed himself off to the world outside the family.<p>

His friends never come here anymore, and if they do, the meeting usually only lasts a few minutes—an hour at most—because of how awkward the conversation goes (I've heard one, and yes, it had been _painfully _awkward).

Dad became a workaholic as the head of the family business and started taking his role as our clan's sort of _padre di famiglia _very seriously. He knows where everyone is and what everyone is doing at any given time, and I will admit to you this: it's actually a very scary thought.

For the first year or so after Mom's death, I can remember him trying his hand at cooking for me and Emile, and…well, Dad has never really been much of a cook. I recall nights when I seriously didn't know what the hell I was eating. Those were the nights before I'd go absent from school because of food poisoning or something or other, and Emile would have to bring my homework for me. (He would look at me weirdly during those times, wondering why I kept on saying Dad's cooking was what made me sick when he seemed to be completely fine. That was before he actually understood that my stomach was much weaker than his.)

I liked those days when I'd have to go absent, though, since I got to stay at home and watch TV. And guess what I'd watch:

Cooking shows.

Which is probably why my childhood was filled with wishful thinking about good food. And, in effect, _making_ good food.

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><p>Remy sighed as he and Emile took their seats, each at either side of their father. "Dad, come on, I'm telling you: I can cook. We don't need to keep on ordering take-outs. Besides, if I cook for us, it'll be cheaper <em>and <em>healthier!"

Django looked up at the word 'cheaper'. "Listen here, this is more of a matter of convenience, alright? I mean, you don't have the _time _to cook! You're always working or running errands." He flipped to the next page and finished, "Besides, we can't afford you cooking all those fancy dishes, time-wise, nor financially. All those ingredients and equipment…"

Remy gave him a skeptical look. "I can cook simple dishes, Dad. In fact, that's all I _can _cook."

Django put down his newspaper as his eyebrows knitted together and he locked gazes with his son. "Well—"

"Hey, Dad," Emile butted in, displaying his adeptness at knowing when his younger brother and his father were about to fight for a second time that day. "You should've swiped some chopsticks when you bought this! Nothing like Chinese food to end a day of hard work, eh, bro?"

For a long moment, the other two did nothing but glare intensely into each others' eyes, until Remy broke the contact and muttered "Sure…"

The rest of the meal that evening was eaten in tense, uncomfortable silence, the kind that always resulted after fights. The atmosphere lightened only when Django stood up and took his dirty plate to the sink. Wordlessly, he left the room and it was apparent where he had gone when the white noise of the TV in the living room filled the air.

It was only at that moment that Emile turned to Remy. "Bro, I'm not sure if it's very healthy to fight this often with Dad…"

Remy huffed in return, quietly retorting, "Well, it's not my fault he's such a single-minded guy! If he thought more openly about things, I'm sure we'd get along more, but…but…_you know_!" He groaned when he couldn't find the words.

The other nodded knowingly in return. "Or…I dunno. Maybe you should try looking at things his way more too, you know? I mean, let's face it…You're way different from me or our cousins or even any of our relatives—and I'm not only talking about that stomach thing—so…maybe Dad just doesn't really know how to deal with you…?" By the time he finished his little speech, Emile's eyes were focused on the light bulb and the moth flying around it, stroking his chin in seemingly deep thought.

In turn, Remy couldn't help but blink owlishly at him.

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><p>Simply put, Emile is a sweet idiot—Dad's drunken words, not mine.<p>

He would never hurt a fly if he can help it, and he doesn't like seeing people fight. (Nope, his peacemaking doesn't stop with just me and Dad.) That's the 'sweet' part.

The 'idiot' part, unfortunately, is as apparent as it is…well, true.

During that night that Dad and I were at a bar without Emile, who had opted to stay home and sleep because of how tired he was from a full day of hauling overheated cars off the road and into the garage, he had admitted that he wanted to let the both of us run the shop—Emile as the brawn and me as the brains. He said the business would fall apart if I didn't play my part in that little performance.

And yes, I'd have to agree with Dad. I'm nowhere as strong as Emile, and…he isn't anywhere as smart as me. (Oh God, that sounded so vain.)

There are moments like _these_, however, when I find myself reanalyzing that assessment of my brother. Sure, he might've always flunked Math back in school, but who doesn't? (I didn't.) Academically, he isn't the brightest crayon in the box, but there are times that I can't help but think that when it comes to wisdom, Emile is someone I can actually look up to as a big brother.

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><p>"You know what, Emile?"<p>

"Hm?"

"That's actually pretty sound advice. Thank you."

Emile gave a toothy little grin in return. "No prob, little bro."

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><p><strong>Review pleaaaaaase? ;3; I'm not afraid of constructive crit, if that's what you're worried about...<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

Hello, everyone! I'M NOT DEAD! XD Really really sorry about the long delay. School started and I've hit the ground running and have kept on running from the very start of class since I'm 4th year (or rather, now that I'm a Senior, since my country's educational system isn't the usual 12-year one). Things have been pretty hectic and will continue on being so for the next month and a half. And then I'll be free~ 8D (bah, what am I talking about? I'm going to miss my alma mater like crazy after grad :( )

Anyway, after I got the results to my college entrance tests, I decided that I needed a break so I...uh...watched Meet the Robinsons for the first time. LOL WAIT THIS IS RELEVANT TO THIS FIC. Anyway, after watching it, I was like 'AAAH I REMEMBER MY RATATOUILLE FIC ;A;' so I brought out my idea notebook again and reread my flowchart/plot notes for this fic. Ah, I'm still in love with it~

Moving on:

A CAVEAT: This is a pretty crappy chapter. And seriously, it is. I was supposed to combine it with the next chapter, but BAAAAH the next chapter is really bad! I need to rewrite it, but I don't know when I'll have time to do so. D: Also, if I combine it with the next chapter, the result will be uber LOOOONG. I'm sorry to disappoint the readers who were waiting for this to update (lol or am I just talking to myself here?) but you'll have to hang tight for a little bit more before getting something awesome. I promise the next time you see a 'new chapter' email sitting in your inbox, it'll be good.

For now, though, I hope this is enough to prove that I haven't abandoned this. D:

[btw the replies to the reviews are at the bottom of the page]

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><p><strong>Chapter 3<strong>

A dog-eared slip of paper was slapped onto the table, right beside Remy's bowl of cereal.

"Morning to you too, Dad," Remy greeted as he picked it up. "'Milk, cereal, orange juice, double-A batteries, 40-watt florescent light bulb, cleaning supplies, 6-pack of beer, pack of cigarettes,'" he read aloud and gave the other man an uncertain look. "Uh…Dad?"

Django dragged his feet over to the kitchen counter, to where an empty, dusty coffee pot that hadn't been used in ages sat. He reached for the cabinet above it and pulled out the foil pack of instant coffee powder that sat inside. "Hot water?" he asked, his voice still raspy from having just woken up.

"Kettle's on the stove," he said before taking another bite of his breakfast, deciding it would be best to wait until his father had gotten his first serving of coffee to ask about the list.

As Django plopped himself down on the seat across Remy, his overflowing '#1 Dad' mug of coffee spilling some of its contents onto the table, he asked, "Where's the paper?" as he looked around with half-lidded eyes, as if he was disoriented.

"Paper boy hasn't come yet." By that time, Remy had already finished his breakfast. He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin that he had pinned underneath his plate. He held up the slip of paper his dad had given him. "Dad, this is the shopping list I gave you two days ago."

Django made a sound in his throat that sounded a little like a deep _hrrr_, just like the one made by a motorcycle accelerating in place. "Should stop paying that kid. Never delivers the paper on time." These, among other things, were what he muttered before taking a sip of his coffee.

"Dad." Remy leaned forward and snapped his fingers in front of the man's face, jolting the other man out of his stupor for the most part. He held up the paper. "What is this?"

"Oh, right." Django groaned and rotated his neck. It made popping sounds at certain places.

Remy made a face of slight disgust, which went unnoticed.

"I need you and Emile to run down to town today and run a few errands."

"…You want us to buy the things I asked you to get two days ago, with the addition of cigarettes and beer?"

He shrugged. "Pretty much."

Remy leaned back again and sighed, looking over the list once more. "Why can't you be the one to do this again?"

"Bernard's been arrested again. " He nonchalantly took a sip then continued when he saw the concerned look on his son's face. "Petty theft. The usual. Called me to bail him out around an hour ago."

Remy visibly relaxed. "I thought he finally worked up the courage to kill that neighbor of his he always complains about. What'd you say to him?"

"Told him to take care of his own problems." He huffed. "Wish I could follow through, though, but I can't. Being his big brother, I've gotta look out for him. No matter how much he deserves being in jail for a while." He shook his head, mumbling, "Kid never learns…"

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><p>A little background: Bernard is my Dad's youngest sibling, so he's my uncle. It's very weird when you take into consideration that I'm seven years older than him.<p>

Since he basically didn't really have any real parental guidance to speak of (You can't really blame Grandma and Grandpa. After their fifth kid or so, they kinda stopped caring), he grew up a troublemaker.

"_Troublemakers end up in jail," _was what Dad always used to say to scare me and my brother from getting in with the wrong crowd, and yes, this much is true. Bernard has been to the police station no less than nine times. And that's only considering the times he's actually _been caught _doing something illegal.

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><p>"By the way," Django interrupted Remy's train of thought. "Where's Emile? You have to open up shop at 9." He glanced at the clock. "It's 8:30 already."<p>

Remy pocketed the sheet of paper and took his plate and empty glass to the sink for washing. "He'll be down any minute now."

"How do you know?"

Remy, with his back turned to his father, allowed himself an amused, little smile.

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><p>It takes a very long time for Dad to notice patterns. It's been a year since he let me and Emile have free run of the shop so he could open new ones in nearby towns to employ our relatives at. It's been a year since we've been put in charge of opening the shop up at 9 and closing it at 6.<p>

But it's been seven years since Emile has started sleeping in until 8:30, only to barrel into the kitchen, eat a serving of cereal in under two minutes, and rush back upstairs to bathe and prepare. All done before 8:45 rolls around, giving us ample time to motor on over to the shop and get ready for a day of business.

I wonder when Dad will notice.

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><p>As if on cue, heavy footsteps hastily plodded down the hallway and into the kitchen.<p>

The owner of said footsteps rushed over to the fridge and grabbed the carton of milk before going over to the table, where a place had been prepared for him. A bowl, a spoon, a glass of orange juice, and a box of corn flakes greeted him, all set out by his little brother. He voiced his gratitude for that.

After a few moments, in the intervals between shoveling spoonfuls of food into his mouth, Emile turned to Django and jovially said, "Good morning, Dad!" His smile fell a little, though, when he saw the look on the older man's face—it looked like he was very perplexed indeed. He swallowed. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Remy wiped away the last drops of water from his plate and placed it inside the plastic cabinet beside the sink. He hung the dish towel on the handle of the oven, and as he exited the room, he gave his dad a smirk that clearly said _I told you so._

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><p><em><em>**HUUUUUUU I'M SORRY TO DISAPPOINT YOU ALL *HIDES***

REPLIES TO REVIEWS:

SparrowxLight - Thanks! The slash won't be coming for a while, but I hope you wait for it. :) I already have a beta-reader, but thank you for the offer.

empurple - Yeah, my stories are usually faster than this when it comes to pacing, but I discovered that this is the pace that I feel most comfortable with when reading. I made that discovery when I read this one fanfic that was SO FREAKING LONG but SO FREAKING BEAUTIFUL so yeah XD

PocketAces - 'slightly arrogant Remy and timidly awkward Linguini'...nice way of putting it! I didn't really think of those descriptions for them, but now that you mention it, that sums up their characters pretty well.

RooRooDoll - Thanks so much! It took me quite a while to 'translate' the plot from one angle to another, but I think (rather, HOPE) that I've got it down right. :D Like, if a Pixar person were to, on the off chance, read this one day, I want him tobe able to nod along and say 'That makes sense.' AAAH MY DREAM XD

PutMoneyInThyPurse - Ohwow I was really overwhelmed by your positive comments! o/o I seriously don't know what to say...XD;;; Thank you so much, though! :D It's reviews like yours that motivate me to keep on writing, so please don't hesitate to leave even more comments! XD And to be honest, I never really went and psychoanalyzed each character...I just got into them and tried to write them the way I'd see them reacting in each situation. I'm glad that it's serving as a way of adding even more depth to the story, which is something I really did hope to achieve. ^_^ Hope you keep following this story! (btw read my PM if you can :D)

Wolfenpilot687 - Thank you so much! It really warms my heart to be told that my story is easily imaginable because that means I'm doing something right (since this IS fanfiction, it's sometimes a little difficult to uphold that end of the bargain. Fanfiction is usually plagued by farfetched ideas and OOCness.)

Aiatalay - Yeah, I noticed that about kinkmeme posts too! And incoherency? :O I'm surprised to have reached that level! You never bribed me with fanart :( hahaha jk :P Thanks for the comment about picking up on other writers' styles! I really did try my best with that. I watched the movie like a bajillion times before even attempting to start writing this just so I could get Remy's voice down pat. And type away! I immensely enjoy reading long comments. :)

manakarijukoisme - The descriptions won't come out in a full-out shebang, but I'll be dropping hints here and there to what his general physical appearance is. I don't want to give an extremely long description because a lot of people usually ignore that (I'm one of those people). Instead, I want to give the reader a little freedom to imagine Remy as however they want to imagine him. I think it would make the story a little more enjoyable if I gave the reader their very own part to play. :) Um...to be honest, Remy will not be meeting Linguini for quite a while. QUITE A WHILE. I can't say any more than that because I'll be giving the plot twists away. :P Sorry! Still, I hope to see you still reading even after this reply! :D

steelnightshade123 - I think that's happened to everyone at least once. Glad you're liking it so far! :D Hope you stay for the ride.


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